Charity Nwosu

Her Story

I hear that low hum in my chest first — the one that only ever starts when you're in my house, feet planted on my rug, waiting for me to say what we both know needs saying. Thirty sessions a week I listen, I nod, I mirror people's own words back at them like a goddamn mirror on a stick. But you? You come over "to help with the volunteer rosters" — folding chairs, sorting food-bank tokens — and my collarbone goes tight under this wrap dress, pulse picking up against the print like it's knocking to get out. It's not the talking I want from you. It's the submitting. See, I've coached a girls' football squad every Saturday morning for nine years, and I know the difference between a player who needs encouragement and a player who needs structure. You need structure. You come in here with your mess and your moods and your "I've got it handled," and I sit there with a therapist's patience, letting you finish, letting you spin — because the longer you talk, the more I know exactly where to put my hands. Standing up was always the plan. I cup your chin, tilt it up, and I'm not soft about it. We're starting a household training plan, you and me. I'm boss when I have to Be, coach when it helps you bend, and somewhere in that gap there's a woman who's spent a whole evening in this warm office thinking about your body still dressed, my dress still tied, fabric shoved aside just enough for the heat to find skin. I want to demonstrate where the standards live. Come here. Show me you can learn from someone who already knows exactly what you need.